


too long to the weekend

by DizzyRedhead



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Childhood Friends, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyRedhead/pseuds/DizzyRedhead
Summary: When Derek agreed to show Stiles around Berkeley, he was thinking of Stiles at fifteen, his childhood friend, the son of his mother's best friend.He was not prepared for Stiles, all grown up.





	too long to the weekend

**Author's Note:**

> This has almost nothing to do with canon, so be aware. I just stole the characters to play with.
> 
> Many thanks/curses to relenafanel and rhysiana for dragging me into the black hole that is Teen Wolf and Sterek, to Liz and Taylor and Dana for looking over the fic and being interested to read it, even when I stopped poking at it for several months at a time. 
> 
> Title from "WILD" by Troye Sivan.

Derek’s roommate is an asshole.

When he checks his phone after class, there’s a text message from Mike that just says,  _ Going home for the weekend. Don’t let him have sex in my bed. _

Derek snorts.  _ Got it. One jizz-covered bed coming up. With bonus used condoms _

The only response is an emoji finger flipping him off, so he tucks the phone back in his pocket and heads to his dorm. 

Halfway there, his phone buzzes again, the long vibrations for an incoming call. He digs the phone out and accepts the call without really looking at the screen. “Hi, Mom.”

“Literally anybody could have been calling you from my phone,” his mother says, her voice amused.

“Only old people call,” Derek retorts, something in him relaxing at the sound of his mother’s voice. His alpha’s voice. Being three hours away for college has been great in some ways, but it does get lonely sometimes. “Cora would text me if she got your phone.”

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes and it almost makes him homesick. “Anyway. I was calling because Claudia said Stiles just left, so it’ll be a couple hours. One of you needs to text or call when he gets there so we don’t worry.”

“I know, Mom.” Derek tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulls open the exterior door to his residence hall. “Don’t worry. I promise not to take him to an orgy or anything.”

“Hey, what happens at Berkeley stays at Berkeley,” his mother laughs. “I promise neither of us is going to ask any embarrassing questions about your weekend. We trust you.”

Derek actually pulls the phone away from his ear for a second to check the caller ID. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my mother?”

She laughs again. “You’re both adults, Derek. Stiles turned eighteen last month. I--oh, dear. One of the pups apparently found a skunk in the woods. I’ve got to go. I love you. Don’t forget to text when he gets there!”

“Love you too,” Derek replies just before the line goes dead.

He makes his way up the stairs to his apartment in a state of bemusement. It’s hard for him to think of Stiles as an adult, he realizes. When he thinks of Stiles, it’s always of the scrawny, animated boy following Derek and Laura around whenever their moms got together for what they called their “summit meetings” --which the kids were always careful not to call their “bitch sessions.” 

Stiles was fifteen when Derek left for Berkeley, all long arms and legs and eyes that looked even bigger than normal with his hair buzzed down to his scalp. He knows Stiles has grown and changed since then; it’s not like Derek never goes home, or that they never run into each other when he does. 

But Stiles has his own friends and his own life, so they’ve mostly been fleeting encounters, never long enough for him to build a solid mental picture of who is he now. This weekend is going to be the longest Derek has spent with Stiles at one time in literally years, and he’s suddenly not sure how it’s going to go. 

After a moment of spiraling into all of the potential for weirdness and awkward situations, Derek shakes himself. This is  _ Stiles. _ There is exactly zero chance of awkward silence, because Stiles has never met a silence he can’t fill with chatter on some subject or other. 

Worst case scenario, Derek ends the weekend with encyclopedic knowledge on the history of circumcision, the mating habits of some obscure species of animal, or why the latest Batman movie adaptation is an insult to the original source material. And he’s actually kind of looking forward to the last one; he has thoughts. 

It’s going to be fine.

* * *

Derek opens his door, the greeting dying on his lips. 

This was probably the worst idea ever.

“Hey,” Stiles says with a wave. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah.” Derek clears his throat and steps back to let Stiles into the apartment, trying not to stare and probably failing. “Come on in.”

Stiles looks around avidly as he steps inside, hitching his backpack up on one surprisingly broad shoulder. When the fuck did Stiles get so muscular? He’s lean instead of scrawny now, forearms rippling under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel overshirt as he swings the backpack down to the floor by the couch. 

He even grew out his hair. Derek knew that, but he didn’t know that it would look like this up close, like someone had their hands in it. Which is not a train of thought he was expecting.

“So!” Stiles rubs his hands together. 

Have his hands always been that big? Were his fingers always that long? Derek completely loses track of whatever he’s saying next, his face heating. Stiles is his friend, for fuck’s sake. His only-just-barely-not-jailbait friend. It’s completely inappropriate to be wondering what those agile fingers would feel like on his skin, inside him.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “My schedule’s a little weird today; I had an 8 am class and I think the coffee’s worn off. What was that?”

Stiles smiles at him, tongue flicking out over his stupidly full lower lip in a way that ought to be illegal. “Just wondering what’s first on the agenda. This is your show, dude.”

Derek clears his throat. Plan. He had a plan. What was it? Oh, right. “I thought we’d take a look around the campus while things are still open. My mom said you were thinking about Criminal Justice?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Keep it in the family, you know? Gotta pay the bills somehow. But I dunno. I was looking at maybe Library Science, too. I like doing research.”

“Well, you don’t have to decide right away,” Derek reassures him. “We can walk to campus from here, unless you want to drive?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No way, big guy. Stretching my legs sounds perfect after three hours in the Jeep.”

“You’re still driving that thing?” Derek asks, opening the door and gesturing Stiles out in front of him. He regrets his choice almost immediately. At some point in the past three years, Stiles has stopped wearing baggy, shapeless jeans in favor of a brand that hugs one of the best asses Derek’s ever seen. He drags his gaze away just in time, as Stiles looks back over his shoulder with a grin.

“Oh, yeah. I’m not going to give her up anytime soon. Anyway, you don’t get to talk. Cora says you’re still driving the Camaro even though it’s got over 150,000 miles on it.”

Derek shrugs helplessly and Stiles grins wider, triumphant.

“Anyway,” Derek says, desperate to change the subject before he blurts out something inappropriate about Stiles’ sudden hotness. “Campus! What do you want to see first?”

* * *

“So,” Stiles says, loading a chip with salsa. His knee bumps against Derek’s under the small table. Derek can barely hear him over the buzz of conversation in the restaurant, packed with students and faculty getting some food before they head out to the bars and clubs. At least, that’s why he tells himself he’s sitting so close. “What do you usually do on the weekends?”

“Honestly?” Derek grabs his own chip, ridiculously distracted by Stiles’ knee still pressing against his, by the way Stiles licks salt off his fingers, by the movement of his throat as he swallows. It’s ridiculous.  _ Get it together, Hale _ . “I’m usually working on homework or watching something on Netflix. Kinda boring.”

Stiles grins at him, pulling his fingers free of his mouth with an obscene pop that makes Derek incredibly grateful for the cover of the tiny table with its chili-pepper-patterned tablecloth. “And here I figured you’d be out every night, picking up all the hot college girls.”

“Or guys,” Derek blurts out without thinking, his face heating in the next instant. He rushes to continue, doing his best not to fixate on the way that Stiles’ eyes went wide and bright at his words. “But no. I figured out pretty quickly that the random hook-ups weren’t really my thing.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles says, reaching for another chip. He’s not meeting Derek’s eyes when he adds. “Me too. The guys and girls thing, I mean. But also the random hook-ups thing.”

Derek nods, since it seems like a fist-pump would be inappropriate. “That’s, uh, cool. Thanks for telling me.”

“Kinda surprised your mom didn’t mention it,” Stiles says with another grin. His shoulders relaxed and it was only then that Derek realized they’d been tense. “I’m pretty sure she and my mom have had a lot of conversations about it since I came out to my parents.”

“She probably figured it wasn’t her place to tell.”

Any further conversation gets cut off by the arrival of their food. This is Derek’s favorite restaurant, but he has a sinking feeling he’s never going to be able to come back here without remembering the obscene circle Stiles’ mouth makes around his burrito or the way his eyes flutter shut at the taste of it. 

Standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant once they’re finished, Derek feels oddly hesitant. This wasn’t a date, not really, but it kind of feels like it. “We could go out, if you want. I promise not to tell my mom or yours if you want, like, one beer.”

For a minute Stiles almost looks tempted, but then he shakes his head. “Nah. That’s cool, but I’m not really in the mood. Long day, long drive. Netflix sounds like about my speed.”

“Cool,” Derek echoes, trying desperately not to even think the phrase  _ Netflix and chill. _

Stiles grins at him as they start walking back. The low light from the setting sun makes his eyes look like liquid gold and Derek realizes exactly how fucked he is when he has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out and taking his hand.

He tells himself it’ll be okay. They’ll watch a movie or a couple of episodes of something. He can head to bed early; he has the excuse of the 8 am class. It’s going to be fine. He’ll get through this weekend without doing anything stupid, Stiles will go back to Beacon Hills. They’ll like each other’s posts on Facebook and say hi when they pass on the street.

It’s going to be fine.

* * *

“What do you want, uh, to watch?” 

Derek stumbles over his words when he turns away from the TV, controller in hand. The apartment isn’t big enough for a full-sized couch, but he’s never really noticed how small the secondhand loveseat is. Until now, with Stiles sprawled in the corner, one arm draped over the back, long legs splayed wide.

Stiles shrugs, like he doesn’t know what he fucking looks like, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m good with whatever, big guy.”

Derek sinks into the empty space on the couch, trying not to fixate on the way his knee bumps into Stiles’ or the warmth where their shoulders press together. “DS9?” he offers. Because that’s probably what he’d be watching if he was on his own. Not because it makes Stiles smile at him, eyes lighting up. 

He realizes his miscalculation about five minutes in. The problem with picking a show he’s watched before is that he knows what’s going to happen. There’s nothing to distract him from Stiles’ proximity. Stiles’ scent is almost as familiar to him as his own, as any member of the pack, but Derek finds himself taking deep breaths as subtly as he can, trying to tease out the slightly unfamiliar note. 

Whatever it is, it’s not helping the situation in his pants, Derek realizes with something like panic. He’s about to make some excuse about needing the bathroom, desperate to escape and deal with his stupid overeager cock, when Stiles’ hand lands on his thigh.

_ High _ on his thigh. High enough that all Stiles would have to do is spread those long, long fingers a little wider for the tips to brush against the growing bulge in Derek’s jeans. He stares at that hand for a long, long moment before looking up to meet Stiles’ eyes. 

“So maybe I’m reading this wrong,” Stiles says quietly. He’s so close, suddenly. Even closer than Derek realized, leaning into his space like he feels the same magnetic pull that Derek does. “But--”

Whatever else he was going to say gets cut off when Derek closes the distance between them, capturing Stiles’ lush, red mouth with his. It’s even better than he’s been imagining, soft and sweet and almost hesitant at first. But then Stiles makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, his lips parting and his tongue teasing at Derek’s mouth.

Suddenly it’s hot and wet and filthy, both of them devouring each other hungrily. Derek reaches out blindly, getting his hands on whatever parts of Stiles he can reach, and pulls, dragging him into his lap. Stiles moans, breaking the kiss to take in gulps of air, and Derek takes advantage of the opening to get his mouth on the long, gorgeous line of his neck.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles pants. “Do you--are you-- _ fuck.” _

His hand slides up into Derek’s hair, threading through the strands and tugging, just a little. Derek lifts his head reluctantly, his wolf darkly, possessively pleased with the hickey blooming under Stiles’ ear. “Is this okay?” he makes himself ask.

“Fuck yes.” The reply is instantaneous, Stiles’ grip in his hair and on his shoulder tightening. “If I was any more into this I would’ve already come in my pants. I just--is this what you want?”

Derek rolls his hips up against Stiles, too turned on to be embarrassed by how hard he is already, especially when Stiles’ eyelashes flutter at the feeling of Derek’s cock against his ass. “I wanted this since you walked in my door,” he growls.

“Good,” Stiles says, a little breathless. “But this couch is way too small for anything other than makeouts. Relocate?”

“I don’t know,” Derek teases, rolling his hips up again just to feel Stiles grind back down in answer. “I kinda like this position.”

Stiles bites his lip, his teeth white where they dig into the plump, red curve. “It’s not bad,” he agrees, darting in for what was probably intended to be a quick kiss but quickly turns heated again.

“Okay, c’mon,” Stiles gasps when they finally break apart again. “If we keep doing this I’m definitely gonna come in my pants. And even though that’s starting to sound like a plan, I’d like to at least get to see you naked. If that’s okay.”

Derek’s feeling pretty nonverbal, so he tightens his grip on Stiles’ hips and surges to his feet. Okay, so maybe he’s showing off a little, but it’s worth it for the way Stiles’ hands tighten on his shoulders, the adorable little squeaky noise he makes.

“Benefits of werewolf super-strength,” Stiles says, his voice elaborately casual as he leans in to nip at Derek’s neck. “I’d say I’ve never considered this application--”

“Don’t bother,” Derek says with a smile. “I’ll know you’re lying.”

He can actually feel Stiles pouting against his skin. “You know, a real friend would pretend he didn’t know about my alleged fantasies.”

“But if I pretend not to know about them, how am I gonna make them come true?” Derek asks, stopping at the foot of his double bed. 

He doesn’t really want to let go of Stiles, but he wants to see Stiles naked. And they can’t get naked if they’re wrapped around each other like this. So he reluctantly forces himself to loosen his grip, to let Stiles slide down until his feet touch the floor. “I think you said something about being naked?”

Stiles shrugs out of his flannel, his hands hesitating on the hem of his t-shirt. “Well, technically I said I wanted to see you naked, big guy.”

“Fair’s fair,” Derek says, stripping out of his own shirt.

“What is this, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Stiles quips, his eyes dragging over Derek’s chest like a caress. The humor is almost enough to hide the tension in his body--almost. “Because that seems like a seriously unbalanced equation.”

Derek starts to make a flippant remark, but the real insecurity lurking in Stiles’ eyes stops him. “I’ve been imagining you naked since I first saw you this afternoon,” he says, taking Stiles’ hand and pressing it to his chest, above the steady--if fast--throb of his heart. “Please?”

Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath. “Okay.”

His hands don’t move, though, his shirt still staying firmly on his body. 

“Can I?” Derek asks, curling his fingers around Stiles’. The warmth of those big hands under his, the soft skin of Stiles’ stomach where Derek’s fingertips brush it, everything is electrifying. His instincts are screaming at him to take, to mark, to make Stiles  _ his. _

But he’s more than his instincts, so he waits while Stiles bites his lip again, waits for the slow, hesitant nod. Waits for that beautiful mouth to open. Waits for “yes.”

“We don’t have to,” he says, leaning in to brush his lips over Stiles’ forehead. “Whatever you want--”

“I want--” Stiles grits out, his hands flexing under Derek’s. “Trust me, I want. I just--are you sure you--this isn’t like, werewolfy perfection, you know?”

Derek leans in to kiss him again. Soft this time, because for all they’ve grown apart since he left, this is Stiles. Stiles who shared his Reese’s cups when Laura was sick, Stiles who never made fun of Derek when he woke up with a nightmare, Stiles who always made him laugh, even when he was angriest.

“Stiles,” he says softly, his voice as coaxing as he can make it. “Can I see you? Please?”

Stiles’ eyes flutter shut, the warm honey-amber hidden behind pale lids and ridiculously long lashes. His throat works as he swallows. “Okay,” he breathes, more air than words.

Derek sinks to his knees, pressing his lips to the strip of soft, pale skin revealed just above the waistband of Stiles’ jeans as he eases the shirt up. It’s soft under his mouth, warm and stretched over muscle and bone. 

Stiles shivers under his touch as Derek makes his way upward, slowly lavishing each piece of revealed skin with kisses and nuzzles. By the time he has to stand, the shirt is bunched up under Stiles’ armpits and both of them breathing hard.

“Okay?” Derek asks. Not because he doesn’t know--the honey-thickness of arousal still layers Stile’s scent--but because he wants--he needs to know that Stiles is in this with him.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his voice rough. He lifts his arms obediently when Derek pulls the shirt up and off, swaying closer into Derek’s space.

Kissing is even better without their shirts, skin on skin. The way their scents blend and meld, making something new, something better, is intoxicating. Derek wants to wallow in it, to paint every surface in the small, shabby suite with it so he never has to be without it again. 

He feels sensitized, every feeling in such high definition that it’s almost painful. His hands keep moving, mapping out every inch of Stiles’ skin, cataloging all his reactions. The way he melts into Derek with a firm stroke up his back, the shiver that wracks his body when Derek’s fingers brush over his nipples, the whimper in the back of his throat, his hips rocking into Derek’s when Derek’s hands move down to grip his ass.

“Derek,” he gasps. “Oh, fuck. Please--”

“Anything you want,” Derek vows, the words vibrating against Stiles’ shoulder as he explores the sensitive spot where it joins his neck. “Just tell me. What do you want?”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “Pants off, please? I just--I’m so--”

“Me too,” Derek agrees. His hands feel big and clumsy, but he finally manages to get the button on Stiles’ jeans undone, pulling the zipper carefully down. Of course, those jeans that hug Stiles’ ass so beautifully are too tight to just shove to the floor, but it’s not exactly a hardship to be back on his knees. 

Especially when it gives him the chance to run his hands down each long, muscled leg, to see the way Stiles’ cock is tenting his boxer briefs, to get a lungful of that intoxicating, concentrated scent. Derek’s hands shake a little as he reaches for the elastic waistband. “These, too?” he asks, looking up at Stiles.

Stiles swallows, his hands fluttering in the air before coming to rest tentatively on Derek’s shoulders. “Yeah. If you want?”

“I want,” Derek says--okay, maybe the word is more “growls” but whatever. He pushes the cotton down slowly, forcing himself not to rush. 

Stiles’ cock springs free like it’s just as eager as Derek is, and Derek’s mouth fucking waters. “Can I?” he asks, leaning close enough that his breath moves across the sensitive skin, close enough that there can’t be any question what he’s asking. “Please?”

“Dude, I’m going to go off in like, two seconds,” Stiles warns, his hands flexing on Derek’s shoulders.

It takes a minute for Derek to parse that answer with all two of his remaining functional brain cells, to work out that it’s not a no. “Please?” he says again, looking up at Stiles as pleadingly as he can. 

“Shit, yeah,” Stiles says. “If you really wan--”

His words cut off sharply when Derek takes half of his cock in one quick movement. Part of Derek’s brain notes that he seems to have actually found a foolproof way to shut Stiles up, but that part is quickly shouted down by the rest of him, a swirling maelstrom of  _ scent hard hot Stiles good. _

Contrary to his earlier words, Stiles lasts longer than two seconds. Not that Derek would have minded--not that he isn’t enjoying every moment he gets to taste Stiles like this, to feel the beat of Stiles’ heart against his tongue. But it’s fiercely, viscerally satisfying to feel Stiles’ cock swell in his mouth, to taste the hot, bitter-salty spurts down his throat.

Derek swallows and swallows, thirsty for every drop. He only stops when Stiles shoves at his shoulders, reluctantly letting Stiles’ softening cock slip free of his lips.

“God,” Stiles says on a long breath. “Fuck. I--I’m gonna sit down now.”

He collapses on the bed more than sits, his eyes practically glowing when he looks at Derek. “I--what do you want? I, uh, I don’t know if I can--do that. I mean, I haven’t really tried? I’ll give it a shot if you want, but--”

“Anything,” Derek says as he stands, surprised at how much he means it. Without the distraction of soothing Stiles--pleasing Stiles--his own arousal surges to the forefront, urgent and demanding. “You don’t have to--I can just take care of it--”

“No way,” Stiles says, his jaw setting in a stunningly familiar way. “C’mere, big guy. I may not have like, god-like blow job skills, but I know how to jerk off. Where’s your lube? Drawer?”

Derek nods, watching dumbly as Stiles rolls onto his stomach, reaching for the only drawer in the shitty bedside table and rummaging around until he finds the almost-full container of lube. He’s still watching when Stiles holds it up triumphantly. And when Stiles turns back to him and frowns.

“You’re still wearing pants,” Stiles says. He tosses the lube onto the pillow, getting to his feet and crossing the distance between them. 

He doesn’t even hesitate before kissing Derek, licking into his mouth like he’s searching for his own taste. Derek’s so caught up, so lost in the taste and the scent, drunk in the feeling of skin on skin, that he doesn’t even notice what else is happening until Stiles’ hands are at the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button.

“This okay?” Stiles breathes against his lips.

He waits for Derek’s nod before diving in again, devouring his mouth and pulling the zipper down in an impressive display of multitasking before finally breaking the kiss.

“I think you’re gonna have to help me here,” he says, pushing at the tight denim. “Not that I’m complaining about how these make your ass look, at all. But how the hell did you get into these?”

“They’re not that tight, ah, normally,” Derek says, his face flushing.

Between the two of them, they manage to get his jeans and briefs off. Derek’s feeling increasingly desperate, like all it might take is one touch to set him off. But he can’t resist when Stiles coaxes him into the bed, arranging him on his back before settling between his thighs and reaching for the lube.

“Oh, God,” Derek groans, trying not to buck up off the bed at the first touch of Stiles’ hand, slick and hot and perfect. It’s a little too loose, a little too slow, but he’s not sure that will matter. Not when he can look up at Stiles, at his teeth digging into that lush lower lip again, the heat in his eyes when he looks back at Derek. “Stiles, fuck.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, more air than words. “C’mon, Derek, tell me how to make you feel good.”

“Tighter,” Derek chokes out, his eyes doing their best to roll back in his head when Stiles complies. “Fuck, yeah, just like that. A little faster--oh, fuck. Stiles--”

Stiles has always been a fast learner, and apparently this is no exception. Derek is losing his mind, his vocabulary reduced down to  _ God _ and  _ fuck  _ and  _ Stiles _ . 

“Stiles,” he says, a plea, a prayer, an invocation. “Stiles, fuck--Stiles--”

“I’ve got you,” Stiles says, his eyes dark on Derek’s. “Are you gonna come for me?”

The words, the sensations, the scent of Stiles all wrap up together and push him over the edge. Derek comes, and comes, and comes. Stiles’ big, clever hands work him through it until he’s so sensitive it almost hurts, until he manages to choke out a “stop.”

Stiles does, instantly. When Derek manages to pry his eyes open, it’s to Stiles’ worried face. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Was that--did I hurt you?”

Derek rolls his head from side to side on the pillow, the lazy gesture about all he can manage. “No,” he says, reaching for Stiles with clumsy hands. “I’m good. C’mere.”

“I’m gonna get you all gross,” Stiles protests, trying to pull away.

It takes a little bit for the meaning of the words to sink through, but when they do, Derek grins. “It’s good,” he mumbles, pulling at Stiles again. “Want to smell me on you.”

“That’s gross,” Stiles says cheerfully, but he lets himself be tugged down, lets Derek wrap around him. 

Derek just shrugs. “Wolf thing.”

He thinks, vaguely, with the part of his brain that handles practical things, that they should probably talk about this. But he’s warm, his stomach is full, he’s just had an orgasm, and Stiles’ scent mingled with his fills the room. It smells like home, like family, like safety.

Derek falls asleep between one breath and the next.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, it takes a minute to realize what’s happening. He’s not a fast waker normally, and for some reason this morning it’s especially hard. Everything is warm and soft and he just kind of wants to close his eyes and bask in it.

Except the warm body against his is moving, and the familiar scent in the room that’s not his is changing, taking on notes of uncertainty and anxiety, bitter and acrid in his nose.

Derek tightens his grip reflexively, forcing his eyes open. “Stiles?” he mumbles. “Where y’going?”

“Nowhere!” Stiles says, the sharp, unpleasant notes in his scent intensifying. “Just, you know, I woke up, and I started thinking, and I don’t know the etiquette here, maybe you wanted me to go sleep somewhere else and pretend this didn’t happen and--”

A kiss seems like the simplest way to cut off the flood of panicked babble. Derek thinks vaguely that he should have tried this method before. Not that he doesn’t like listening to Stiles, normally. But this, the way Stiles practically melts into him, his lips parting against Derek’s--it’s new, but Derek looks forward to the chance to get used to it.

“If you want to go,” Derek forces himself to say when he lifts his head, “I’m not going to force you to stay here. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re right where I want you to be.”

Stiles licks his lips, lifting a hand to run it through Derek’s hair. “This is where I want to be, too,” he says quietly.

“Good,” Derek leans in for another kiss, but his still-waking brain finally puts some pieces together, stopping him mid-movement. “Stiles?”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks absently, his eyes fixed on Derek’s mouth.

Derek can’t think of a tactful way to ask, so he just blurts it out. “What do you think we’re doing here, exactly?”

“Um.” Stiles meets his gaze for a millisecond before fixing his eyes on a point somewhere over Derek’s shoulder. “Hooking up?”

“Stiles.” He does his best to make the word soft and coaxing. “Is that what you want?”

One shoulder lifts and falls in a shrug; Derek has to fight not to get distracted by the mark he left there last night, by the surge of possessiveness and arousal it brings up in him. 

“If that’s all you want,” Derek says, doing his best to pick words that don’t put pressure on Stiles, “I get that. You’re eighteen, you probably want to keep your options open--”

“Wait,” Stiles blurts out, his eyes wide and surprised when he finally looks back at Derek. “What--what did you think we were doing?”

Derek takes what he hopes is an unobtrusive breath. “I thought--I hoped, that we were starting something. A, uh, a relationship.”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, then, without looking away, takes his hand out of Derek’s hair and just looks at it.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks when he can’t contain his curiosity any longer.

“Counting,” Stiles says, letting the hand fall to rest on Derek’s arm. “In dreams, sometimes you can’t count, or you have the wrong number. It’s a thing.”

Derek smiles, barely restraining the urge to kiss him again. “It’s not a dream,” he says instead. “Like I said, though, I get it if you’re not interested in dating right now--”

The breath rushes out of him as Stiles basically tackles him onto his back. And then it’s his turn to be shut up by Stiles’ mouth on his.

“I’m so interested,” Stiles finally says, lifting his head just enough to look Derek in the eyes. “But I’m probably not gonna be a great boyfriend at first. Since I’ve never done it before.”

“Me either,” Derek says, running his hands down Stiles’ back. “We’ll figure it out together.”

There’s probably more that needs to be said, but with Stiles warm and real on top of him, Derek has other priorities. They’ll figure it out later.

They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't post a ton of Teen Wolf stuff, but you're welcome to [follow me on Tumblr](http://dizzy-redhead.tumblr.com) anyway, especially if you want to yell about how dumb Stiles and Derek are.


End file.
